The Respectful Size
by Bloodless Igby
Summary: And all Dean can think, as he rises to his feet with his distraught brother in his arms, is that Sam is right. Dean is bigger than him. And that's pretty much the only good thing that can possibly come out of this situation. deaged!Sam, protective!Dean
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ***waves* Hi! Okay, so this isn't really following the Supernatural timeline at all, or at least it doesn't allude to the events of the series. Sam and Dean, however, are the ages they were in Season 3, so if you need some kind of timeline, just think to yourself: Season 3.

**The Respectful Size**

* * *

It was a hell of a night.

Dean wakes up with bones that creak like hundred-year-old hinges. He rolls off Bobby's couch, his face scraping against scratchy, old fabric that was never gentle, not even when Dean was ten which wasn't ninety years ago at all, not even twenty, yet, rising to the burnt smell of neglected toast and the sounds of a disgruntled baby brother wanting to know where Dad was going this time.

Sam. Dean's eyes shift to the discarded pile of rumpled blankets on the floor, the limp pillow flattened by the impression of a large head. Early riser, his little brother.

Dean leans down and plants his hands on the floor, stretches like a cat, his shirt falling to his shoulders, baring skin that is still young and toned, skin that's felt the pads of many a wandering female finger. He shivers now at the thought of being touched, feels that familiar heat in his belly that creeps down and reminds him that he should take care of business this morning. If you can consider such a simple pleasure to be business, that is. He should have beer for breakfast, too. Just because he's Dean and he can.

And he's earned it, goddamnit.

Last night was a hell of a night, after all. Dean doesn't even know what the fuck that thing was, even now, he just knows it knocked him out and Sam out and they both woke up to Bobby's smug-ass mask covering his concerned-ass face and fuck it, Dean wants a beer. Just as soon as he jerks off.

He returns to his feet, winces and sighs as his limbs pop. Breathes in.

Bacon. Dean smells bacon. This is enough to distract him from both his penis and his alcoholism, and he pads barefooted to the kitchen in his boxers, ignoring his aches and pains like the pro he is. He expects to see Sam there, his gigantor ass on the counter, reading a paper or a book or something while Bobby cooks, but there's no Sam and that's fine. Sam's a big boy. Dean doesn't feel the absence like the galloping hooves of a hundred panicked horses along his insides. Not anymore. He swears it.

"Where's Sam?"

First words out of his mouth. His voice is rough and his throat kinda hurts and he could use that beer now.

Bobby looks over his shoulder at Dean, just like he used to twenty years ago, when Dean stood in this exact spot asking this same question, reaching for a plate of pig that's been dead even longer than this one he's reaching for now.

Shit's hot. It burns his tongue and he hisses and waves his hand next to his mouth. "_Fuck_."

To which Bobby grunts, "Well, what the hell did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know," Dean says. "Something delicious, maybe." And he stumbles across the room and yanks open the rust-covered door of Bobby's ancient fridge.

His mind fails to process what's in front of him. Or what isn't. Empty shelves. Not a bottle in sight. "Dude, what happened—"

"Don't tell me you don't remember."

Dean doesn't remember. He's not sure if he should tell Bobby this, though, so he just stands there, sways on his feet with his mouth opening and closing while he decides if he should admit it and finally, "I don't remem—"

"You and your idgit brother called while I was on my beer run. You know, right after you drained the house dry."

Oh. Yeah. Now that he thinks about it, Dean actually _does_ remember that last bottle. He remembers yoinking it right out of Sam's hand while the kid was distracted by Dad's journal, his geek mind caught in a web of hastily scribbled words as it is so often prone to do.

"Right." Dean rubs at the back of his neck, stretches a shoulder to the ceiling. Yawns. "So, where's Sam?"

"Hell if I know," Bobby replies. "I haven't seen him all morning."

Dread slithers like a snake down his throat. He doesn't know why - Sam's probably just upstairs or downstairs or outside or something, stretching or doing push-ups or whatever the fuck he does to keep his stupid muscles bulging. Little bastard was never supposed to get this big. Dean still remembers when the top of his brother's head barely grazed his chest. Thirteen. Or fourteen. When Sam still looked up to Dean, and at him, too.

He shakes his head. He doesn't know why he's thinking these things or feeling like this. It's a perfectly normal morning at Bobby's house. All is quiet, and calm, and like it should be. Except for the lack of beer, of course.

"So...that thing last night-'

"It was an aswang," Bobby cuts him off, sliding the last strip of bacon from his spatula to the plate.

"A what now?"

"It's a vampire. And a witch. And a shapeshifter."

Huh. No wonder he couldn't get a read on what it was. "So it's just like...a swiss army pocket monster or something."

Bobby nods. He picks up the plate of bacon and moves it to the dining room. Dean follows him. "Real nasty son of a bitch, too. Feeds on kids and unborn babies. Good thing I got there in time, huh?"

"Hey," Dean says indignantly, for he is not a kid or an unborn baby, but a full-grown Dean, thank you very much. Sam, on the other hand..."So how'd you end up getting rid of it?"

This question, much to Dean's surprise and insatiable curiosity, seems to make Bobby distinctly uncomfortable. The man clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, avoids Dean's gaze.

"Aw, c'mon. Couldn't have been that bad."

"Well, they're usually female. I'd go as far as to say always. And there's this one shape they're terrified of."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "A...shape? You mean, like a triangle?"

"No, boy, not a triangle."

"Circle?"

"No. And if you say 'square' next, so help me..."

Dean doesn't say 'square' next. He bites his lip and looks to the ceiling thoughtfully, waits a moment before allowing a mischievous smile to spread slowly over his face. "Polygon." Bobby doesn't look amused, though, even though he should. Dean is incredibly amusing, after all. And he's putting off a nice session in the shower to have this conversation. "Octagon." Nope. "Octo_pus_."

Bobby goes down the ignore-him-and-he'll-stop route. Dean can respect this, but it doesn't mean he won't trail the guy back into the kitchen spouting off one shape after another until Bobby finally, deliberately, pulls a package of sausages out of the fridge and asks, "You want some?"

"We're having bacon," Dean replies absently, and Bobby just looks at him, wiggling the plastic-covered meat around in his hand and Dean really doesn't know why it takes him so long to get these things, sometimes. His mouth forms a near-perfect 'o' as the imagery sinks in. He glances down at his boxers. The question in his head is fleeting, but begs to be answered: what can possibly be scary about something so inherently beautiful? "Really?"

"Really."

"Huh. So, how did you..." Dean trails off. His mind really doesn't want to go there, it doesn't want to go to that place last night in that alley, that saw him and Sam struggling for consciousness while Bobby somehow scared this creature off with...that. "Oh, for the love of God, Bobby, tell me you just threw some gay porn at it."

Bobby smirks. "I just threw some gay porn at it. Now, go find your brother and ask him if he wants some breakfast."

Oh, right. Sam. Dean will find Sam and the morning will proceed as usual, except without beer. He turns on his heel and heads for the stairs first, smiles when he's followed by the sound of Bobby's fondly muttered, "Idgit."

Good ol' Bobby.

Sam's not upstairs. Dean becomes aware of this after opening a few doors and calling his brother's name a few times, so he retreats to the first floor and pulls on his jeans from yesterday. They're in dire need of washing, to be honest – there's dirt and blood stains and some kind of rank odor Dean doesn't even want to think about, but fuck it, his nether regions are cold and he's going to have to go down into the basement. Or maybe even outside.

It's snowing outside. He chooses the basement first.

"Sam?" The walls are hard and bare and Dean's voice bounces between them like an intangible ping-pong ball. There's no response. No grunting or sounds of strained movement. No Sam. Nothing. "Aw, c'mon. I don't want to go outside." He continues down the stairs, even though it seems futile. He's already come to the conclusion that Sam's not down here, but he feels a pull, quite like earlier when he felt panic and dread. Something about today and Dean's head and Sam's absence is just very off. "Sammy?" he asks, more quietly this time. "You down here, man?"

But there's nothing. Dean knows there's nothing. He's already decided there's nothing and he doesn't know why he's still trying when there's nothing and he should just suck it up and go outside now. He'll put a leash on his stupid little brother like he should have done twenty-four years ago when the kid was born and then he won't have this problem ever again—

The smallest of gasps breaks into his thoughts.

Dean's head zooms in the direction it came from – a far corner of the room, filled with cobwebs and shadows. "Sam?"

But the smallest of gasps is too small to come from his six-foot-four brother and Dean knows this, so he's not quite sure why he's calling whatever sure-to-be-tiny thing in that corner by his sibling's name. Then again he doesn't know why he felt panic, or dread, or a pull, either. So.

His bare feet feel like ice against the concrete floor, but he trucks on, moving slowly, his hand going into his jeans pocket, fingering the knife that's always there whenever he needs it. His daddy taught him well. Dean's always prepared for monsters in the basement.

"Come out," he growls. "I'm not fucking around."

A sob. Tiny and high-pitched, like from a child's throat, and Dean bears down on this corner with its shadows and uncleanliness and uninvited occupant. He pulls the knife out of his pocket without thought, his stride quick and deliberate now and this isn't instinct. He knows it's not instinct, but training. Nurture over nature and all those other ridiculous political arguments pertaining to how people become what they are. Dean became a hunter.

A hunter with a gut feeling. A hunter who skids to a halt before making his kill because that thing in the corner isn't a monster.

It's his brother.

Can't be more than four or five, but it's Sam, curled up with his face hidden behind his knees, his hair falling over his eyes, and tears streaming down his cheeks. The knife in Dean's hand falls to the ground with a clatter.

"Holy crap."

"D-Dean?" Sam's crying so hard he's practically hyperventilating, and Dean remembers this shit. And now it's instinct he moves on, crouching to his knees and holding out his arms. Sam hiccups and plants his palms on the floor, crawls over to his now much-bigger brother to accept this comforting embrace.

"You know me?" Dean asks, because he has to be sure. Kid was hiding. And why would he hide if he knew Dean was there to protect him?

"'C-course I do," Sam says. Dean feels tiny arms wrap around his neck.

"What are you hidin' for then?"

"I…I…"

But Sam can't get it out. His sobbing increases tenfold and Dean's shirt is the one who has to survive the flood. Dean, despite being completely bewildered, is still operating on instinct. He rubs Sam's now-tiny back with a steady hand and makes those soothing shushing sounds his mom used to make when Dean, too, had the privilege of being an inconsolable child.

"You what, Sammy?" he asks, when he's pretty sure the crying has subsided somewhat.

"I…I w-woke up," Sam says tearfully. He sniffles and wipes his nose against Dean's shoulder. Dean winces, because what the hell is this morning, anyway? No beer, and now this?

"And?" he prompts when Sam doesn't continue.

Sam pulls away just enough so that he can look up at Dean. Dean remembers this look. Dean remembers not ten minutes ago, reminiscing on when Sam was respectfully small and this was a commonplace action, him looking up at his big brother. How it should be.

Except not like this.

"Sam," he says again, more gently this time. "You woke up and..?"

Sam sucks in a quivering breath, his eyes threatening to storm yet again. And then they do, and he wails, "An' you were _bigger_ than me!"

And all Dean can think, as he rises to his feet with his distraught brother in his arms, is that Sam is right. Dean _is_ bigger than him.

And that's pretty much the only good thing that can possibly come out of this situation.


	2. Chapter 2

"What the…?" Bobby trails off, his eyes wide, his head tilting like that of a confused animal as Dean walks into the kitchen, arms laden with a sobbing, miniature version of Sam.

Dean doesn't know what to tell him, so he just shrugs to the best of his ability. The movement is hindered by the death grip Sam has around his neck, and Dean feels little feet trying to climb up his hips before the kid gets a hold around his waist, too, pressing his short legs into Dean's sides**.**

"Does it look like I know?" Dean asks, thumping his little brother gently on the back. "I thought you said those ass-wang thingies-"

"Aswang," Bobby corrects.

"Whatever. I thought you said they _eat_ kids. Not, you know...turn oddly large people _into_ kids."

Sam chokes on a sob, starts heaving, and Dean starts making those shushing noises again because that's all he knows how to do. Well, that and the back-rubbing bit. And for fuck's sake, he's bouncing the little bastard in his arms and Sam sure as hell better not remember any of this when he returns to his appropriate, but still-abnormal size.

"Dude, Sam, breathe. What are you gettin' all worked up about, huh?"

"I...I..."

"You-you what?"

They wait as Sam collects himself, his breaths still quick, but gradually treading into shallower territory. He takes in one last long shuddering gulp of air, however, before saying, "I wasn't _oddly large_, Dean. I was just bigger than _you._"

Bobby's eyebrows ascend his forehead as he stares at Dean's bundle of emotionally-distraught joy, and Dean kind of knows the questions the guy wants to ask. Sam remembers being big, obviously, bigger than Dean, but if he's small in stature only, then why is he sobbing and clinging and-

"How old are you, Sam?" Bobby's tone is one of caution. Dean doesn't blame him. He feels like this small, Sam-shaped creature in his arms, the one he thought was a monster not even ten minutes ago, might still be liable to break or explode at their slightest misstep.

But Sam doesn't answer Bobby. He sniffles, and Dean feels relief from the pressure around his neck as the kid wipes a hand over his face. Then a gentle weight against his forehead as Sam presses his own against Dean's. Dean feels his little brother's breath tickle his ear, hears the whisper, "Who's he, Dean?"

Shit. Dean pulls away, shifts Sam on his hip so he can get a look at his brother's face, so he can search for some kind of comprehension of this fucked-up situation they've all found themselves in. But he doesn't find anything but red-rimmed eyes trusting him to take care of this.

What he wouldn't give for that too-long shower and a beer right now.

"You don't remember Bobby?" Sam shakes his head and that's just...well, that's just _weird_. Of course, the fact that at the moment, Sam probably wouldn't clear the minimum height for _Scooby-Doo's Ghoster Coaster_ is weird, but still. Dean persists, "Uncle Bobby?"

Bobby throws him a startled look at the title. Dean gets that. Guy hasn't heard it in a long-ass time, especially not out of Dean's mouth, but he _was_ Uncle Bobby at one point. Longer for Sam than for Dean, and if Sam's going to remember something, _anything_ about Bobby, it's going to be with that familial address pinned to the beginning of his name.

But again, Sam shakes his head.

And Dean finally brings it back to, "How old are you?"

To which Sam replies, "M'_four_, Dean."

Four.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck.

"He was five," Bobby says, and Dean thinks he sounds a little sad, the sentimental old bastard. "When we first met, I mean."

"Yeah?" Dean doesn't quite remember. The early years all kind of fade into one another after a while, but if Bobby says Sam was five, then Sam was five. Now the big question is, how the hell does a not-five, but _four_-year-old remember being bigger than his now-twenty-eight-year-old brother? "But I thought you said you were _bigger_ than me?"

"I _was_," Sam insists. "I was bigger than you _yesterday_. And then I woke up and I was small, but _you _were still big." Something about Sam's expression changes, then. It's not all rain, anymore. It's thunder, too. Tight lips and narrowed eyes, an all-together _scathing_ expression directed at Dean, and Dean only. "You _did_ something to me!"

Dean blinks. "I...what? Dude, I didn't do _anything_ to you."

"Yes, you did! You're playing one of your dumb jokes again, 'cause you think I'm stupid and I'll fall for it, but I _won't_, Dean."

"I don't think you're stupid, Sam-"

"Yes, you do! 'Cause I believed you when you said that the...the cl...clow..." Sam can't say the word. He's breathing hard, and still glaring at Dean even though there's fear evident underneath the epic baby bitchface he's presently sporting. "I went to find Dad to tell on you again, but I couldn't find 'im. I looked everywhere and then I got lost and it was all dark and I saw a spider." Sam's eyes are getting wet again. Dean doesn't know if he can withstand anymore Sammy tears, so he kneels down and wipes at the kid's eyes with a terse finger. "Did Daddy go away again, Dean?"

Yep. Nothing about this situation is good. Dean can tell by the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that won't leave. It's going to keep going, falling until it's past his feet and cracking the earth, and nothing - not even the reclamation of his rightful height advantage - will be able to mend it. This, Dean is sure of, because there are words coming out of Sam's mouth that are like salt to still-fresh wounds and Dean can't stop them.

Because you can't hit kids. Or even gag them. And that's kind of a downer at the moment.

Dean swallows. His throat is dryer than it was than when he woke up, and there's no beer, but he'd settle for water right now. Anything to stop his voice from sounding like a death rattle, which it does, when he says, "Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, Dad went on one of his trips. S'okay, though. You know why?"

Again, Sam sniffles, and wipes the back of a tiny hand over his nose. "'Cause you're here."

Dean manages a nod. "'Cause I'm here."

"An' you won't let anything bad happen to me."

Dean apparently said these words a lot when Sam was four. He remembers rehashing them not too long ago, hoping to ease away the remnants of nightmares and psychic head pains.

"And I won't let anything bad happen to you," he agrees.

And he won't.

Three minutes later sees Dean closing off the doors between the dining room and the kitchen, he and Bobby leaving Sam at the table, boosted up by two large books on his chair, prodding sullenly at cold bacon with a little finger. Kid wanted Lucky Charms. Dean had forgotten about Sam's long-since-gone obsession with sugary cereals.

If only it could have stayed that way.

"Okay," Dean says quietly, once they're tucked safely away in the kitchen. "So what the _fuck_, Bobby?"

Bobby throws him one of those mind-your-tone looks that both Dean and Sam have come to know all too well over the past couple of years.

Dean makes a disgruntled noise from the back of his throat, clenches his hands. "Fine, m'sorry. But seriously, what the fuck?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. Then shrugs. "Hell if I know. Told you they were part-witch."

Dean stares at him. "Right. So this is a spell? A curse? What do I need to do? Go to your friendly neighborhood shop of erotica and buy up their dildo supply? A box of plastic dicks oughta do the trick, right?"

Bobby apparently can't help himself. He turns his head so Dean won't see his amusement. As if that makes some kind of difference.

Dean glares. "Are you four now, too? This is _serious_, Bobby!"

Not that it escapes him that he ordinarily wouldn't be able to get through such a suggestion without at least a _near-_giggle, but for fuck's sake, his baby brother is far too close to actually _being_ a baby and Dean doesn't see anything funny about this situation. Not at all. Not when he's going to have to go through however long this takes pretending that his father is still alive, dealing with tears and God help him, tantrums, and perhaps worst of all, the inevitable conversation about why _ThunderCats_ is no longer in syndication.

He sighs and waits for Bobby to contain himself, which luckily, doesn't take long. The older hunter clears his throat, wipes at some stray tears of mirth.

"That'll only scare 'em," he says. "I'll research it, but to the best of my knowledge the only way to kill 'em is by salt. Burns their skin."

Dean stares. "You had gay porn last night, but not salt?"

Bobby stares back.

Right. That gay porn thing was never confirmed. Dean closes his eyes, internally chants to himself that he can believe in things that aren't real. Like the means by which Bobby rescued them last night, and perhaps that small fantasy he had when he was but a young Dean.

_One day I will meet Batman and he will be inexplicably fond of me._

"You gotta stay with him, you realize."

Of course, he can't stay in this happy place for long. Dean slowly re-opens his lids, eyes Bobby warily. "I always stay with him."

"I mean _always_. Whenever you're out of this house, you gotta make sure you have him by the hand. That thing's going to be _hunting_ him, Dean. It wouldn't have done this if it didn't want him for dinner."

"I know."

"It can look like anything and anyone."

Shapeshifter, Dean remembers.

"I know."

Bobby studies him for a long moment, as if trying to ascertain that Dean really does know.

Dean sighs. "I can take care of my brother, Bobby. I've been doing it my whole life. Nothing's going to get him on my watch."

These words might as well be etched into Dean's bones. It's what he knows, what he runs on, and what he'll always stay true to no matter what happens. No dick-fearing mega-monster is going to change the only steady in his life. Or take it away.

"I'm going to go..." _Check on him. _"Eat some bacon."

He doesn't wait for Bobby to respond, just opens the door and walks out to find a chair empty save for two books, and a plate of untouched bacon. That's all it takes.

Something's caught in Dean's throat. Something awful.

"B-Bobby?" He doesn't feel the name coming out of his mouth, doesn't recognize his own voice amidst the rapid beating of his heart against his ribs and where the fuck is Sam? He feels Bobby's hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off, takes quick strides towards the table to look under it. But there's nothing there, so he hollers,"Sam? _Sammy_!"

"_What_?" He hears the sound of two tiny feet slapping against the floor. Sam comes racing in from the direction of the den, skids to a stop in front of Dean's own feet and looks up, grinning. "What, Dean?"

Dean breathes. It feels good to breathe.

"Where were you?" he demands.

"TV!" Sam chirps. He reaches up and takes Dean's hand, tugs on it. "C'mon, Dean. I've been looking and looking but I can't find _ThunderCats any_where!"

Goddamnit.

Dean lets himself be pulled into the den, though he throws one last, longing glance over his shoulder at the bacon that will only grow colder as the minutes pass by.


	3. Chapter 3

The bacon got cold.

Which isn't to say that Dean won't eat it. Because he _is_ eating it, he's numbly chewing as he sits on the floor, his back against the couch, his long legs spread out in front of him. The TV's blaring the obnoxious voice of that animated yellow sponge that Dean, on occasion, privately finds amusing, but his eyes aren't on the screen. They can't be, because they're fixed to the smallest thing in the room.

Well, maybe not _the_ smallest thing. There are probably smaller things, but Dean can't see them. Right now, to him, nothing can be smaller than Sam.

Which, by the way, is completely terrifying.

To his credit, though, he tries not to let this weakness show on his face. He just sits and eats his bacon and watches his little brother.

The details escaped him this morning. He was going through the motions in a haze, doing the job Dad gave him and doing it damn well. There's still kid-snot on his shirt and his ears are still ringing with lore, but it's only been in the past five minutes that Dean became aware that Sam doesn't have any pants. They must have slipped off somewhere when the kid went looking for answers, because by all means, Sam's indecent, naked save for the t-shirt swallowing him like an ocean.

So small. Sam is so fucking small.

Dean shudders. He likes to think that it's all a dream. One really fucked-up dream that he'll wake from any moment now. He'll roll off of Bobby's couch and stretch through the aches and pains of yet another risky night, the phantom fingers of morning fantasy prodding him towards the shower, and it'll all go as it should have gone with decently-heated pig products and a Sasquatch for a younger sibling.

Any moment now, it'll all fade away, this ridiculous scene of a floppy-haired child drowning in an over-sized T-shirt, eyes soaking in modern children's programming with evident disgust.

"This is dumb," Sam grouses. "You can't just drink cups of water _underwater_."

It's not a dream. Dean doesn't dream like this. Vague memories sometimes, yeah, but only in images like silent ghosts, vanishing at the tips of his fingers. This is solid. Dean knows it is, because Sam was always a stickler for cartoon logic.

He swallows his bacon. "I don't know, Sammy. I don't think it's all that dumb."

Sam turns his head and fixes Dean with a delightfully bitchy expression.

Warmth. Comfort. Hope. These are the things that rush through Dean's body at the familiar sight. His brother may be tiny and easy to break, but they still have their balance. Balance is good. Dean can't be tripping all over the place with small, fragile things in his care.

"How _isn't_ it dumb, Dean?"

Dean shrugs. "I just don't think it's that dumb, is all. I mean, it's no dumber than talking alien cats who walk on two legs and battle mutants. Cats just can't _do_ those things, you know?"

It takes a few seconds for it to sink in. Dean's actually surprised the little bastard's able to comprehend it, but Sam's far quicker than most kids barely out of toddlerhood. He always was advanced, of course, Sam was the smart one, but he's operating on a slightly higher level now. Kid retained more than just the knowledge that at one point, he was bigger than his big brother.

"You're _stupid_, Dean."

Or maybe not.

Dean quirks an eyebrow. "That all you got?"

"And _mean_."

Dean considers this. It may be true. He may be stupid, and he may be mean. But at least he's not short.

"At least I'm not short."

And just like that, he knows he's hit a sore spot. Sam's little face scrunches up, all furious and magnificent, color flushing his cheeks, eyes shiny and ready to spill. Dean flinches in expectation of a wail that doesn't come. The wail, he escapes.

The little blur of rage that barrels into him, he doesn't. Sam's fists may be small, but like Seabiscuit, they're also full of heart, and Dean finds himself helpless against their wrath. Once again, it occurs to him that this isn't a dream - Dean is very much awake and very much being beaten up by a four-year-old. But he finds himself pretty numb to the blows. He's too caught up in wondering where Sam's mind is, and why he thinks this is at all acceptable. After all, Dean is neither a kid, nor an unborn baby, but a full-grown Dean. And as such, he deserves respect.

"Hey," he says, attempting to capture wily little wrists in his hands. Sam's a wriggly beast, though, and that mixed with Dean's fear of grabbing and gripping too hard make this situation far more difficult than it needs to be. It shouldn't _be_ a situation at all. Sam may be four, but Dean is no longer eight and...

_I went to find Dad to tell on you again, but I couldn't find 'im. _

The words come flooding back, and aw, hell, the kid's mind is all messed up. He remembers being bigger, but has no recollection of Bobby, and he seems to be existing under the misconception that Dean is, indeed, eight years old and is therefore, someone Sam can hit and tattle on and who knows what the hell else.

This is also terrifying. Dean must correct this.

He pulls out the big guns. Dean is, after all, handsome and manly and heroic to boot, and as such, he can refer to his arms as guns. He spreads them out. Sam is the smallest thing in the room and Dean is a universe in comparison, all-encompassing, pulling his brother in against his torso and holding until the kid exhausts himself, until he finally falls, limp and sullen, against Dean's chest.

"You're a jerk," Sam grumbles. "A big, fat jerk."

"And you're a..." No. No, Dean's not eight and he can't call a four-year-old a bitch, not even if that four-year-old is the bitchiest bitch to ever bitch, i.e. Sam. Dean has to be a shiny beacon of authority if he's going to keep everyone alive throughout this whole ordeal. And authority figures don't call children crude names. "Brat."

Brat's not crude. And it's a true statement. So true, in fact, that it earns Dean a sharp kick with a tiny heel against his shin.

"_Sam_," he growls.

"It's _Sammy_," Sam snaps back, and, oh god, Dean desperately wishes he was recording this conversation right now.

But he says, "Whatever. You hittin' me? That's not fair. You're little and I'm big and the law's on your side. So cut it out."

Sam slumps all that more heavily against Dean, letting his head drop onto his big brother's arm. Dean can't see the kid's face, but he's fairly certain that there's some pouting action going on there.

And he doesn't know why, especially considering _he_ was the one who was just assaulted, but there's this interesting blend of guilt and irritation dancing around in his belly. Because Sammy's so small and annoying, but mostly small, and small things shouldn't be so unhappy.

And he can't believe what he's saying when he says, "Aw, Sammy, don't get mopey."

A tiny, familiar huff escapes the half-pint body and Sam shifts around, knocking his wee limbs into areas of Dean that, between last night and just now, are already thoroughly damaged. Dean sucks some air in between his teeth as he thinks longingly of the beer they're still out of.

Sam stills, tilts his head back to look up at his brother. Uncertainty clings to the edges of his voice when he asks, "Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean hears and feels Sam breathing, fidgeting. Hesitating. "Sammy, what?"

Sam looks away, shyly picks at a hole in Dean's jeans with a tiny finger. "M'sorry I hurt you."

Four-year-olds are fickle, apparently.

Dean snorts. "Yeah, well..."

"I'll tell Daddy, if you want."

The room at large is unaware of the silent explosion in the left side of Dean's chest. His throat is dry and his face is weak, and he's trucking on, he is, but hearing Sam talk like Dad's still alive is probably going to kill him. Which is still better than the alternative, so he sucks it the fuck up, and clears his throat.

"Tell Dad what?" he asks.

Sam twirls a nervous finger in a white strand of destroyed denim. "I'll tell Daddy that I hit you."

Christ. Sam's moral character knows no bounds.

Dean rolls his eyes. "You trying to get nominated for sainthood?"

Sam shakes his head. "Uh uh."

"So you're just suicidal then?"

And again, with the head tilting back until Sam's eyes meet Dean's. "What'd you have to go and call me short for?"

Dean shrugs. "I was just teasin'."

"You're _always_ teasing."

It's true. Dean _is_ always teasing. This is something that hasn't changed in twenty years and probably never will. He'll stop, though, if it means giving Sam one less reason to bring up the prospect of calling their dead father. Or, you know, he'll at least _try_.

"Dad's on an important trip, Sammy. Let's not bug him just because you have a death wish."

"'Kay. You want me to tell Uncle Bobby?"

"Nah. Not worth it. Bobby's too soft to do anything to you, anyway."

Sam pulls away and twists around, his wee face rife with suspicion. "I thought you said he was _Uncle_ Bobby."

Dean blinks. "He is."

"Then how come you just called him _Bobby_?"

"'Cause that's his-"

"But you said he's our _uncle_." Panic's riding Sam's voice, and his eyes are zooming left, then right, then left again. He's gripping Dean's jeans in a pale fist, and Dean knows exactly what this is. The word "stranger" has a whole new level for Winchesters, after all. Hell, even people they know...

And Sam doesn't know where they are, or who Bobby is, and he's suddenly very small, or Dean is suddenly very big, and the fear is coming off of him in waves.

And aw, fuck, Dean's really going to have to do this, isn't he? He is.

"I meant Uncle Bobby, Sammy," he says.

"Then why didn't you _say_ it?"

"'Cause I'm...going through a rebellious phase." _Called adulthood._

"Well, _stop_ it!"

"Okay."

Dean will. He'll stop it just to put his little brother's mind at ease, because a calm brother is a happy brother is a brother that Dean can keep safe from ass-wang thingies. So who cares if he dies a little on the inside every time he has to address Bobby? It'll only be for a day or two at the most.

...Hopefully.

"Dean?" Sam asks, and Dean has a feeling he's going to be hearing his name asked this way a lot in the coming hours...days...oh, fuck, hopefully not weeks.

"Yeah?"

"Can we read?"

Sam's back to looking at Dean's leg, still tangling his fingers in the loose strands, and Dean can't help the smirk that tugs at his lips, or the gruff affection he feels, rubbing away at the anxiety and the irritation and all those other unfortunate things he's had to experience since he found his brother fun-sized and sobbing in the basement. Because Sammy wants to _read_. His geek brother is still his geek brother and Dean's gut, his instinct, that painfully real part of him that isn't training or expectation, is telling him that this is all that really matters. Sam is Sam and Dean is Dean.

And Bobby is Uncle Bobby, but Dean will tackle that when he faces it.

"Sure, kid, we can read," he says, glancing quickly around the room for books he knows aren't there. There are a few stacked on the coffee table, and on a chair tucked away in the corner, all huge and filthy and old and full of scary things that a Sammy of this particular size should never see. "We'll go to the bookstore and get you something...you know, your size."

Sam stares at him. "I don't have any pants."

"Oh...right." Sam doesn't have any pants. This is something they're going to have to rectify as soon as possible, because frankly, that's just weird. "We'll get Bob- Uncle Bobby to go out and get you some."

Not that Dean really wants to drag Bobby away from the research that will help them end this, but a happy brother is a calm brother is a brother Dean can keep safe from ass-wang thingies.

And that, after all, is his job.


	4. Chapter 4

Bobby comes back about an hour and half later, generic plastic bags sporting streams of red _Thank You's_ swinging from his hands and wrists. Dean smirks at the tiny sneakers that fall out as the bounty is carelessly dropped onto the floor, feels the denim around his right thigh snatched by his little brother's fingers for a moment before the courage kicks in.

"Thank you," Sam says, shyly glancing up at Bobby and it's all Dean can do not to roll his eyes because the fucking puppy looks aren't even an acquired manipulation tactic. Kid came tumbling out of the womb with that shit.

"'Welcome," Bobby grunts in return, though the fondness is there, under the beard and the hat and that gruff exterior the guy thinks he pulls off.

Sam takes a hesitant step towards the bags, stops, aims another question up at the older hunter, despite the obvious answer. "Didja get me pants?"

Bobby got the kid pants. Two pairs. And shirts, socks, underwear, and a teeny tiny hooded sweatshirt that looks strikingly similar to the one Sam wears as an adult. Last, but not least, a puffy little jacket in shades of gray and black that looks like it could have seen better days. But whatever, Dean's not going to be picky.

Well, except...

"You coulda done me a solid, Bobby," he grumbles, glaring at Bobby's selection of children's t-shirts: one solid green, the other with thick horizontal stripes of red and blue. "No Sesame Street shirts at Goodwill, huh?"

Bobby's eyes flick from Sam rummaging through the bags on the floor to Dean. "What are you yammering on about now?"

Dean responds to this by pulling out his cell phone and quickly snapping a picture of his sufficiently-distracted little brother. "Well, I mean...obviously, I was going to _document_ this. Kid's gonna be back to being his gigantimator self soon enough and I have to have at least a little something for my trouble. Preferably something embarrassing. Like, I don't know...a onesie or some crap like that. With Elmo on the ass."

Bobby blinks at him. "You've really given this some thought, haven't you?"

Dean shrugs.

"Dean?" Sam asks, clutching a tiny sneaker in his tiny hand. Dean registers the confusion on his brother's face as the kid takes in the appearance of the phone, but Sam doesn't mention it. He just asks what he was planning on asking: "Can we go to the bookstore now that I got pants?"

"Just as soon as you put them on," Dean replies. He stuffs his phone back into his pocket. Sam doesn't move, though, and those twenty-year-old memories are like loose threads tickling Dean's brain, bath times and shared beds, annoying little feet kicking Dean's legs and disturbing dreams that may have been somewhat decent, considering. A voice, tired and deep, and sometimes warm, despite the order: _Watch your little brother_. "Uh...you need help or anything?"

But Sam scowls. "_No._"

Dean's mouth twitches. "No?"

"I can do it _myself_, Dean," Sam snaps. And then he huffs. Huffs! Dean fucking loves it.

"Well, get to it then."

Sam gets to it, snatching up a pair of pants and a T-shirt from the bags. He makes to leave, but Dean's quick, shoots after him and catches him by the back of the oversized t-shirt.

"_Dean_!"

"Dude, Bobby-"

"_Uncle _Bobby," Sam corrects, slapping at Dean's hand.

"Whatever. D'ya think he bought you undies just so you could go commando? Hmm? 'Cause I don't think so." Dean rummages around with a blind hand until he feels out the package of little boy underwear. He rips the plastic open and indiscriminately pulls out a pair, stuffs them in Sam's hand.

Sam stares at them.

"What?" Dean asks.

"They're purple!"

Dean looks. It's true. They're not even a subtle eggplant, they're Cyber Grape, or one of those other more flamboyant purple shades of Crayola crayon. Razzmic Berry. Pixie Powder.

But Dean just says, "_You're_ purple."

At which point Sam clenches his little hands into little fists, and much to Dean's profound amusement, grits his teeth and glares, splotches of color appearing on his cheeks in his child's fury and it may be a stretch to anyone who's not part of this argument, but to Dean it's the God's honest truth: his little brother is purple.

Sam, of course, will never admit to this. "I am _not_ purple!"

"Are, too."

"Am not!"

"Are-"

"Shut it, Dean."

Oh. Dean had kinda forgotten Bobby was in the room. He twists around to see the man sighing and rolling his eyes, his stance slack with an exasperation that indicates they've been here for three days.

It's been three hours.

They're fucked.

"Bobby-" Dean's not sure what he was about to say, exactly. "Sorry" or "Stay out of it" or "Yes, sir" or maybe nothing, maybe just a trailing off, that "dot dot dot" that Dean sometimes thinks in his head when it's too full for his mouth to actually finish what it's started. All these seem like viable options, but none of them come to fruition. Dean's too caught off guard by the sudden stinging in his arm brought about by two tiny digits pinching his skin, punctuated by that very unmanly squeak that exits his throat and enters the air and Bobby's a fucker, he really is. Dean loves the guy to death, but it's just cruel the way he's hiding that grin behind his hand.

He ignores it for the moment in favor of jerking his arm protectively to his chest and growling at his brother. "_Sammy_."

"_Uncle_ Bobby," Sam replies, calmly, considering the escalation of the argument over underwear or colors or whatever, Dean doesn't even fucking know anymore, all he knows is that this pocket-sized version of the huge pain in his ass is unfazed by his voice and its unspoken threats of fratricide.

And apparently Dean isn't as intimidating as he likes to give himself credit for, because he stares at his brother, long and hard and with those I'm-gonna-kill-you eyes that he's been using on Sam ever since the little shit learned to talk. And it's doing nothing.

Nothing.

So Dean gives up and gives in because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? He reaches back into the plastic package of underpants and pulls out a black pair which Sam is quick to seize, throwing the purple ones in Dean's face with a giggle and running off to the closest bathroom before his older sibling can even think of retaliation.

Dean gets back to his feet, wincing as his knees creak and he's back to that point where he feels decades past elderly despite having just used "_you're_ purple" as a comeback.

"What was that all about?" Bobby asks.

"Eh," Dean says, shrugging a shoulder. "Kid thinks I don't show you enough respect or something."

Bobby's eyebrows try very hard to disappear under his hat. Then his eyes flick briefly to the side before he, too, shrugs. "Not that it ain't true, but why would he think that?"

"Told him I was going through a rebellious phase and that's why I don't call you Uncle Bobby anymore." Not that this explanation does anything for Bobby. He just stares. And Dean, between the sting lingering in his arm and having little kid underwear just thrown gleefully in his face, falls victim to the hot surge of irritation that rushes through his veins. He makes a sound between his teeth, a sound which drives Bobby's brows to victory: disappearing act complete. "He still thinks I'm _eight_, Bobby."

"Gee. I wonder why."

Dean glares and holds a hand up level to the top of his head...okay, maybe a little higher, but the meaning is there: Dean has surpassed that six foot mark. He is most definitely not eight.

Bobby looks distinctly unimpressed. "Boy, you just used 'you're purple' as an insult."

Right. Just go ahead and remind him of that again.

But it does the trick. Dean deflates at the words. He rubs tiredly at his eyes, says, "I always do shit like that."

It might be his imagination, but Bobby's face seems to soften. Sympathy soothing hard lines, a smile tugging at the corner of a lip, all that jazz. A rather rough wave of affection crashes into Dean's chest, knocks him off-kilter, because he doesn't get Bobby sometimes, doesn't understand what Bobby sees in him or why the man thinks he's worthwhile or what Dean's done to deserve any sort of soft spot that exists under that shell that gets harder and harder every year, that shell that Bobby has, that they all have.

That Sam doesn't have at the moment.

The guilt is sand, is ground glass against raw flesh, and Dean has to wonder why his world is full of metaphors that always lead to drowning.

"He's scared, Dean."

Dean knows. He gathered that not yet two hours ago, and still, here he is. Not giving in, even though he promised he would.

He scuffs a bare foot against the floor, can't bring himself to meet the guy's eyes because there's shame in this, in this ridiculous fucking situation, because Sam is Dean's responsibility. Dean's supposed to keep him in line and keep him safe and maybe he's not one for feelings, or the talking thereof, but he's always cared about Sam's. Sam should never not feel safe when he's with Dean.

"Fine," he grumbles. "I'll give 'im what he wants."

"You'll give him what he needs," Bobby counters. "Kid needs you to act like a grown up."

Right. Shiny beacon of authority and all that other crap he told himself he'd be before they got into the third hour. The third hour still feels like the third day and he's very near sure of it now: they're all fucked.

Dean smiles. It's a tired smile. He says, "But I need Sam to do that for me."

* * *

Dean doesn't know how he feels about going out without gay porn or a box of fake dicks, or even sausages cooked into a state of sheer culinary excellence, but he walks out of the house with pockets full of tiny glass vials of salt and his little brother all bundled up by his side. Sam toes a sneaker into the white snow, which isn't as plentiful as it was this morning. It's a soft body now, sinking onto a bed of green knives and being slowly and silently impaled.

"How come Daddy left you the car?" Sam asks, when his eyes land on the shiny black exterior of the Impala. Dean looks down just as Sam looks up, mostly innocent and entirely inquisitive as he always is, at any size. "Did he teach you to drive, Dean?"

Dean's twenty-eight and that resultant pride from his father teaching him to drive at the age of twelve probably shouldn't still be there. But there it is. "He sure did."

"So we can go anywhere we want?" There's a note of excitement in the little voice that causes Dean to smirk.

"So we can go anywhere_ I_ want," he replies. He opens the back door, motions for Sam to climb in, but the kid just stands there, looking confused. "Uh...you need me to...?" He extends his arms as if making to grab his brother around the hips, but Sam catches on, skitters away.

"If Daddy's not here, then I can sit in the front with you."

Ah. Yeah, no. Dean's well-versed on tiny children in classic cars now, thank you very much. Bobby gave him an earful while he was pouring table salt into the vials, all this junk about classic status and how it was somehow okay for any kid over the age of three to be in one sans seatbelt as long as they were riding in the back.

Which would be mind-boggling if Dean wasn't well aware that classic cars are far superior to all other cars - a classic car, especially _Dean'_s classic car, is a magical, though earthly object which safely carries children and Deans of all sizes to their desired destinations.

"Maybe when you're bigger," he tells Sam.

"I _am_ bigger. Bigger than you."

"Dude."

"You _shrunk_ me!"

"I did not _shrink_ you."

Sam glares at him, looking like he doesn't believe for a minute that Dean didn't shrink him. It's fucking adorable, to be honest. Made even more adorable by the fact that, unlike when he was his full-grown self, his kid brother is now far easier to maneuver.

Sam's not quick enough with the skittering this time. Dean grabs him about the hips and plunks him in the backseat, makes sure he's all in before shutting the door.

Dean feels quite pleased with himself as he gets behind the wheel.

Two minutes on the road, two minutes listening to the tremble in his little brother's voice as the kid talks about the injustice of the thing, how Dad let Dean when Dean was little, and if Sam was the big one who had shrunk Dean in a fit of jealousy, Sam would let _Dean_ sit in the front.

Two minutes and Dean's unable to control his bark of laughter. He can't help it. It's just so hilariously untrue. The last thing Sam would ever do would be to break safety laws pertaining to children. Dean can just see his face now at the mere suggestion...

"It's not _funny_," Sam pouts.

But it is funny. It's so funny, it makes Dean feel a little sick.

He's aware that he probably shouldn't miss his brother when his brother is right behind him, but here he is and here they are, and this is what it's going to be: Dean in the driver's seat and precious cargo in the back, and fuck it, he's totally buying Sam an Elmo onesie or something equally embarrassing to get him back for...this. For the crimes of dicks or anti-dicks or what-the-hell-ever is going on here.

Anyway.

"So...bookstore?" he asks, spying the top of his brother's mop of hair through the rearview.

Sam ignores him.

Dean's cool with that. He knows Sam wants to read. Sam always wants to read. Readers grow up and go to Stanford, try and fail to get law degrees. And that's who Sam is. He can keep up the silence and the pouting for however long he wants, Dean will just get him that ridiculous book about that one kid and the terrible, horrible, no good, very shitty day or whatever it was called.

This, he will do. For both of them.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** I found this in my files, and while it's skipped over a bit of what I imagined would have followed the first four chapters of this fic, I thought it could be a continuation. I'm not really inspired right now as far as Supernatural goes, so hopefully this will satisfy those who want to see this continue for a while.

* * *

"...a bal-bal?" Dean asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he stares at the yellowing page. His hand is wrapped around a cold beer bottle, which he strokes absently with his index. finger. "Ass-wangs and bal-bals. What the hell is the world turning into?"

"An aswang is a bal-bal, you idget." Bobby's got that long-suffering, but undeniably fond tone going on, and Dean looks up at him with what he believes to be an endearing grin. Bobby ignores him. "Your reading comprehension needs work, boy. Bal-bals are eaters of the dead."

Huh. Ass-wangs are incredibly confusing targets and Dean feels like he isn't going to understand them, not even when he kills them. Nothing should be so many things at once.

"But I thought you said that ass-wangs eat little kids and unborn babies? And that's why it turned Sam into..." Dean's voice tapers off. He glances upwards, to the ceiling, leery of what's above him - his recently-turned four-year-old brother, freshly tucked-in and sulking for all he's worth. He leans towards Bobby, whispers, "You know. A rugrat."

"Yeah, they eat both."

"And they're witches and shapeshifters."

Bobby nods. "And lycanthropes."

Dean's mind is officially blown. "My mind is officially blown."

Bobby rolls his eyes, smacks the back of Dean's head on the way to the fridge to get another beer.

"_Ow_, Bobby."

Bobby smirks, shuffles back over and takes a seat. "Last I heard, my name was _Uncle_ Bobby."

Goddamn little brothers and the humiliation they cause. Dean doesn't know what's going to kill him first, Bobby holding "Uncle Bobby" over his head, or the fact that no more than an hour ago, he had to read a Richard Scarry pop-up book for the third time today. That fucking worm and its apple car. Dean would totally chop both ends of that little shit off and _dare_ it to try to regenerate.

"Only when Sammy's awake," he grumbles, lifting the bottle back to his mouth. He's simultaneously glaring at Bobby and drinking deep, relishing that smooth feel down his throat and that comfy burn in his belly, when he hears the last thing he really wants to hear right now.

"I _am_ awake."

Dean chokes on his beer. Beer should never be choked on. Especially one he was enjoying so, so much.

He turns around towards the source of that indignant little voice - the owner of which he just went to great trouble to put to bed - and sees Sam, all rumpled hair and pissy expression and too-big footie pajamas, standing in the threshold of the room, stubborn as the day he learned the concept of disagreement.

Dean doesn't know if its phantom, this pain he's suddenly feeling in his ass.

"Well, then you should get your little ass-"

"Dean," Bobby interjects, because he seems to be all about preserving Sam's innocence for some reason. It's not like the kid's never heard the word ass before, but Dean humors the old bastard, if only to ward off another one of Bobby's smacks or heated lectures or what-have-you.

"...butt back to bed, then."

"Assbutt," Sam chirps, and giggles.

"_Hey_," Dean says, even though he, too, wants to giggle. He's been made aware by the looks he gets around town that he's supposed to do certain things with a person of such small stature in his possession. Objecting to swear words is one of them, even if they are hilarious.

"It's redundant," Sam informs him. "Since they're two words that mean the same thing. Like 'stupid dumb-head.'"

Ah. Right. Dean remembers 'stupid dumb-head' quite well. He first heard it three hours ago while attempting to wrangle his kid brother into the bath with little success.

"Sammy-"

"It's bedtime," Sam cuts him off.

Dean raises his eyebrows and stares at Sam, who is now fidgeting innocently on his feet, leaning against the doorway, and waiting. Waiting for...Dean has no idea. "Right. You want me to put you back there?"

Sam shakes his head. "It's _your_ bedtime, Dean. Nine o'clock. Daddy said."

Aw, fuck. Not this shit again. Dean is _not_ eight. He's proven it time and time again. Driving his car, drinking beer, lugging his exhausted brother around in his arms (that are very much man-sized now, thank you very much.) "No, Sam, it is not my-"

"_Sammy."_

"_Fine. _Whatever. It's not my bedtime. It's _yours_. I'm big. You're little. Get used to it." Dean is, of course, aware that he sounds very much like an overgrown child right now, but honestly, he was just enjoying his beer, and if he'd known _before_ Sam got transformed into three feet three inches of sheer trouble that taking care of a kid is far more exhausting than stabbing and shooting and otherwise killing the shit out of supernatural creatures, he would have gotten off his concussed ass that night and stuffed salt down that ass-wang's throat before it could so much as blink an eye in Sam's direction.

But he didn't. And it did far more than blink an eye. Blinking an eye doesn't cause this awful scene taking place in front of Dean right now: three feet three inches of sheer trouble wiping at his sniffling nose and blinking his own eyes, which are now filled with the most vile kind of liquid Dean's ever witnessed in his entire life: tears. Pure, unadulterated, heartbreaking tears.

"Uncle B-Bobby." And then Sam's toddling forward on legs that are clumsy and overtired and too short not to be adorable, holding out his arms for Bobby who isn't looking at Dean at all, whose mouth is all tight and forbidding, and Dean has the distinct impression that this look isn't meant for Sam.

It's not. Oh, fuck, it's not. Dean can tell because Bobby's reaching down and then Sam's on his lap, all pathetic and blubbering, incoherent save for the "D-D-Dean" that manages its way out of his mouth in accusatory tones.

"Dude, you're spoiling him," Dean says. "It's _Sam_. Bobby, you gotta remember-"

But Dean knows better. Dean knows that Sam at this size has far more power than Sam at his normal size - this Sam has the power to ground Bobby into a pile of useless teddy bear dust. Teddy bear dust that somehow still seems to hold an odd sort of authority over Dean.

"Get your ass to bed, Dean."

"Bob-"

"Take your brother with you."

And that's how it comes to the point where Dean once again has his baby brother in his arms, touting him up the stairs and into the spare room, and placing him on the bed, still-teary eyed and hiccuping.

Dean considers the runt for a moment, with his snot face and his mussed hair and the bunched up feet of his train-print pajamas, before sighing and turning around, openly and deliberately peeling his clothes off until he's down to a T-shirt and boxers because this is what Sam wanted and what Sam got and Dean's going to bed now.

"D-Dean?" Sam asks, holding out his arms. Dean kicks his clothes to the corner of the room, obliges for a moment and lifts the kid up only to dump him unceremoniously on the other side of the bed so he can get in.

Dean wedges himself under the covers, turns to his side with his back to his brother whose breathing is still ragged from the crying, whose tiny feet are digging into Dean's legs in a silent, but aggressive bid for attention.

"Cut it _out_," Dean growls, and he knows. He knows he shouldn't be such a dick to a kid who is so small and so out of his element and so..._Sam_, but he can't help it. It's been two days, and Dean still hasn't been able to enjoy a beer down to an empty bottle or a shower long enough to satisfy his needs.

And the feet don't stop.

So Dean finally turns around and grabs one of the tiny legs under the blankets, glares at what he can make of Sam by the dim Thomas the Tank Engine nightlight he bought at Walmart yesterday afternoon with Sam riding in the cart and gleefully throwing Lucky Charms and cookies in as they passed through the aisles.

Those were good times.

These are not. "Dude, I'm here. Go to sleep and stop bugging me for once in your life."

He lets go. Turns back around. Can't handle the sniffles still filling that space behind him.

Grits his teeth. "_Sammy_-"

"You're not s'posed to leave me alone," Sam blurts out. "Daddy said. You're not allowed to leave me alone. You left me alone and I was all alone."

Dean blinks in the darkness, twists around once again to stare at the shiny mess that must be Sam's eyes. "I was downstairs."

"I was all alone."

"You're being redundant."

"Am _not_," Sam insists. "You're being stupid and dis-bedient and leaving me alone when you're not s'posed to. I can't sleep. Something will get me if I sleep."

Fuck. Fuck fuck. Did he hear the conversation? Dean's fucking stupid mouth. He must rectify this immediately. "Nothin's going to get you, Sammy. What do I tell you? As long as I'm here-"

"It'll get you. If I go to sleep, it'll get you. Daddy says we're s'posed to stay together, Dean. Or something will get us."

Dad did say that. Dean's not sure if Dad should have said that, if those were scare tactics, or the God's honest truth, probably both, but Dad's not here right now and he wasn't there then and he doesn't have to deal with a scared little Sam, not like Dean does. Not like Dean always has.

Always. Because Dean's always with Sam and Sam's always with Dean. They're always together, just like they're supposed to be.

And...Dean can sacrifice a beer for a night. Or two. Or however long. Because it's true. It could totally be true. Something could get Sam, or something could get Dean, but if something's going to get them, they should probably be together when it does. Dean doesn't want to know what it would feel like, the guilt and emptiness that leaves that feeling like his organs were pulled out, like his body was scrubbed raw from the inside because something snatched his little brother from under the bedcovers like a hawk with a field mouse.

And he can't take the crying. And he can't bring himself to tell Sam to man up. So he just wedges his arm under the warm little body and pulls it in with an indecipherable grunt.

"Fine," he says. And that's all he says.

He closes his eyes and listens as Sam's breathing slows and smooths, feels the head on his chest, the fist gripping some of his shirt. He falls asleep, comfortable in the knowledge that he is where he's supposed to be.


End file.
